


Distant Past

by quondam



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 23:11:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10292276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quondam/pseuds/quondam
Summary: Shepard doesn't find death in the cold black of space, under the crushing weight of a reaper, or even in the blast that tears the Citadel apart. She dies when everyone least expects it, on a street with the sun shining on her face.





	

Of all the ways he’d thought Shepard would go out—it isn’t like this.

She’d really died that once, and for a time he thought he’d come to accept it in his own way, even if _his own way_ meant taking out as many people as possible with him. Then, the Omega-4 Relay had seemed as good as place as any for a grave for the whole lot of them, though Garrus knew so long as he was breathing he’d drag her back to the Normandy with him. On Aratoht, he’d not slept a wink when she’d been gone, instead occupying a seat beside Joker, monitoring the readings from her armor. When they’d gone off, he’d watched the barren screen and kept the silence company; the stims had kept him awake until she’d come back, yet again, like a ghost.

Earth was attacked just as Palaven was, and until she was in front of him in the flesh, he hadn’t let himself hope for her safe return to him. That would be asking too much, after everything he’d already been given. She’d gone into that mech and disappeared into the sea on Despoina, chasing a desperate lead she’d hoped would give them an edge that hadn’t offered much in the end. And in London… well, she’d benched him at the final push and he’d been left screaming, clawing at the walls of the Normandy when he’d seen the Citadel burst as they beat their retreat.

She’d made it, though. Battered and broken, she’d survived all of it. That was the kind of woman she was.

It took some time for him to even begin to consider again the idea that someday Shepard really _would_ die, but there was a comfort in the idea of it being from age rather than trauma. A morbid comfort, perhaps, but comfort nonetheless. They would grow old together, let life take them wherever it may. That time, however, was long and far away.

There’s nothing remarkable of the moment when she goes, though. There’s no moment of heroism as Shepard steps in to save someone from imminent danger, no great big bad that sends boulders crashing and crushes her beneath. Hell, there’s not even another hole in her suit to steal the air from her lungs while the cold of space eases her into the great beyond.

It’s a rookie cop one block down that draws his pistol a little too early, his heart beating a little too fast, and the trigger he pulls that flies wildly off the mark. The official report will declare it an accident caused by the officer's inexperience. He'll will never wear the uniform again.

That cop misses the target—a kid, he’ll learn later, a kid high on red sand caught stealing that didn’t deserve to die—and rather than just burning up into the brick of a building nearby, it takes Shepard with it.

In armor, she’d have been bruised with soft tissue damage. Medi-gel would’ve done the job and Chakwas would have seen her after when the swelling was a little too much. Rest, she’d have told Shepard, and Garrus would’ve forced it on her for a few hours at least.

Her armor wearing days have been over for some time though, and Shepard’s only really _just_ settled into this life after the Reapers. It isn’t perfect, this life they’ve found together. It turns out nothing ever is as simple as you hope, even the things you want most. It’s working though, it’s getting better, and Shepard smiles more than she ever has before.

It’s she who drags them out early that day, and she wheedles him from their bed with the sweetest promises of a spot she’d found that serves that pirum tart he’s always talking about. The fruit’s canned, of course, you’d never find anything fresh on this side of the galaxy, but it’s enough to get him up. _Especially_ , when she crawls over him in that bed, nuzzles her nose and cheek to his mandible, and reassures him they can spend more time under the covers when they return.

The place is small and turian owned, though they’ve been smart enough to learn to cater to more than just their own species. Shepard’s eyes are alight when she watches him eat, her lips red from the berry compote atop her own pastry, and though the tart isn’t exactly like he remembers from home, it’s close. It’s damn close.

He kisses her outside, tasting the sticky sweetness of the fruit from her stained lips, and it’s moments like these he doesn’t worry about the future, about the past, about whatever it is they should be doing instead. They’ve survived against all odds, and he means to enjoy it.

Shepard links their fingers together and he leads the way, taking the long route back home to the apartment they’ve called their own for some time now. It had been meant for a few weeks, but it’s been months, and Shepard’s only dug herself in further, turned the small space into something of their own.

It would be nice to finally stop and settle…

He hears the sound of the pistol firing, the echo of it down the corridor of buildings on the street they stand on, swears he can even feel the heat of it, but he must only be dreaming. Garrus tugs on Shepard’s hand when she pauses, but she doesn’t move, and so he looks back to her to see what’s caught her eye.

It’s the red that strikes him first, and despite how much time he’s spent around humans, it always still takes a moment to remember that it means bad, it means blood, it means life siphoning out of her. It’s there, red like her lips pouring out of her neck, her hand drawn up on animal instinct and her fingers covered. It runs down her arm, down her chest, her eyes wide and dilated as she looks to him, nothing but him, and then coughs. The blood sprays from her mouth until it’s a fine mist covering him and her and that ground around them. He can’t see the stained lips he kissed anymore, just blood. It’s only blood.

He grabs at her as she starts to go down, just quick enough to slow her fall rather than to prevent it altogether. She’s limp in his arms already and then his hand is at her neck, trying to apply pressure, trying to stem the flow. Shepard’s fingers grapple at his plates and his clothes without control but gripping tight, and those eyes—those god damn eyes he knows better than anything in this galaxy—never leave his face. Garrus sees the begging there, the kind of pleading he’d only ever found in nightmares. _Do something,_ it screams. _Don’t let me go_.

“I’ve got you,” he says, his voice hoarse and trembling, “I love you. I’ve got you.”

Her lips open, but it’s not to speak, just to gasp for air. Her jaw works like if she just tries hard enough—but nothing goes in. Bubbles rise from the blood around his hand at her neck and still that crimson flows out of her. There's screaming and sirens around them, but all he can hear is the choking gurgle of liquid as she struggles to draw breath. They’ll tell him later that she would’ve lost consciousness early on, that she would’ve gone out not feeling a thing, but he’ll know it wasn’t true. She watches him until the end, fights until there’s nothing left.

He feels it, feels the pulse of blood slow and stop, feels her finger tips stop digging and relax. She’s just a weight in his arms like he’s never felt from her before, nothing like when he’s carried her to bed while she slept. Garrus hugs her to him, feels her head loll against his shoulder, and only then is he aware that he’s been keening, crying, screaming without conscious thought.

Not like this, not like this.

There’s supposed to be a home they share together and make their own; fights and arguments they’re not sure they can make it through but they do; thousands of mornings and nights she kisses him awake and to sleep; wrinkles he sees deepen and grow over time; gray strands of hair he finds in her hair.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

“Wake up,” he tells her, gently at first, then growing angrier, hotter, each time. “Wake up!”

Garrus lays her out on the ground and she’s ashen and pale with her life’s blood smeared across her skin and puddling on the street beneath them.

“Shepard,” he says softly again, coaxingly, and caresses her cheek but all he does is mar her skin more with that red. Garrus leans over her and presses his mandible to her cheek.

If he squeezes his eyes tight enough, it feels just like that morning and she’s here, alive, as she’s always been.


End file.
